The vibrations are screaming between the margins of the paper as he writes like a desperate madman; possessed by the margins of life and death. And Mozart is crying at the notes in his head. He must get up and pester the drab of the tide. He must sink and swallow whole the flame of living, though it smells of life where there is truly death, the ashes burning his eyes all the while. Against his brow there is contempt for the aristocratic fool! Who shall know of music if no one knows of that candle against the mahogony desk in its meager flame? It could be killed at any moment! Its life is a testament to will! It must get everything done, must burn out everything it knows!
And Mozart is crying at the notes in his head, and moving his brow to descend with the tide in his heart and the ashes in his soul.
Never, ever let the flame in you subside. Never, ever forget the fuel that drives it, or the wind that contorts its shape like the winding of a cliched road, or the keys of a piano, between the margins of Mozart's own immortality.